


The Fog in the Mirror

by Arke



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Blood, Fantasizing, Ficlet, Hurt No Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, Mass Effect 2, Post-Horizon (Mass Effect), but mostly sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 00:43:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13582404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arke/pseuds/Arke
Summary: After Horizon, a foggy memory of what once was is now all he has left.





	The Fog in the Mirror

The water burns his skin, tiny streams tracing haphazard patterns over hard muscles and harder scars, rinsing away the blood and dirt from the last mission.  The steam settles at the bottom of his lungs with every breath, every choked sound teetering on the brink of a retch.  He tilts his head back and drowns his senses in the spray, scalding water coursing over the spiderweb cracks in his skin.

He could easily wash away the scattered bloodstains, the sweat, the dust from the planet below.  But the dull ache in the pit of his stomach festers, the bile burning at the base of his throat threatening escape.  He closes his eyes as his hand curls around the toggle, steel stinging like ice upon too-hot skin, slick fingers quivering as they pass over the smooth surface just like they had when—

The showerhead stammers to a stop.  The last remnants of water weave down his legs and circle the drain.  But the air is still so thick, heavy with a voice not his own – a whisper lurking in the steam all around him.

A trail of residual dirt and blood follows him as he stumbles toward the sink, catching himself at the brink of falling with trembling hands curling around the edges.  His stomach twists and tenses.  His chest heaves on stuttering breaths.  His hands clench a little tighter, callused fingers sliding along dull metal as he hunches over the sink and barely manages to will down the urge to vomit.

He looks up.  The fog in the mirror obscures everything.

And the whisper grows louder.

Once, that voice had been everything.

Honey smooth and whiskey rough.  Beautifully pure laughter, unashamedly lewd moans.  Words catching on hitched breaths.  Brimming over with adoration – even love.

Then, Horizon.

The cacophony.  Gunfire and husks shrieking.  Blood splattering over metal and grass alike.  And in the midst of it all, that voice—

_Shepard._

It lingers in the air, weighing heavily upon his shoulders like armor, scratched and dented and bearing the wrong insignia.  That voice, pained and angry as it stumbles over the name.  That voice, broken and sharp, glass shards slicing through the fog and cutting him deep.

That voice is no longer the one he remembers.

_Shepard._

A ghost stares back at him, a memory looking over his shoulder, where gray-tinged hair and a lattice of hard muscle and smooth skin is now nothing more than a blur of black and beige.

A memory he held on to as he careened through the darkness toward the planet below, an image he could never let go of: the shape of Kaidan’s face, the curl of Kaidan’s smile, the light in Kaidan’s eyes – the last light he saw before his vision had gone black and his lungs had emptied and his heart had stopped.

A memory that now struggles to surface from the other side of the mirror.  An image that now haunts him like a shadow in the fog.

He remembers the feeling.  The feeling of Kaidan’s tongue on his neck, tracing perfectly straight lines between two imperfect freckles.  The feeling of Kaidan’s warm breaths wafting over the skin there, eliciting a fine sheen of sweat barely visible in the dim light.  The feeling of Kaidan’s hand tracing its way up his stomach, his pecs, his collarbones.

Veins bulging over bony knuckles as that hand curls around his neck, quick and with measured control as though taking the handle of a gun, every line and angle already mapped into those fingertips like a muscle memory.  Flesh burning under the strong hold, Adam’s apple shifting against the palm on a hard swallow, a stuttering breath escaping despite his best efforts.

And that voice—

_How could you do this, Shepard?_

That voice is what suffocates him.

His breath hitches, caught on a word that would never become a proper answer, and he leans forward over the sink the slightest bit, shoulders stiffening, biceps flexing under the phantom touch.

After Horizon – after that moment – the shower spray had been like the static over the comm when he had called for pickup, blood thrumming against his eardrums in a rhythm designed to drown out his thoughts.

But now, all he can see is the hazy reflection in the mirror.  All he can feel are the fingers sliding down the length of his body and pressing into the slants of his hips, the stubble brushing against the nape of his neck, the teeth teasing his earlobe until the pulsing rush of blood surrenders to the sound of heavy breathing.

_You turned your back on the Alliance._

That voice gritting out between clenched teeth.

_You turned your back on me._

That voice scraping over the shell of his ear, all while those fingertips caress the spaces between his ribs, skin that is too hard and too soft, warm flesh weaving over lines of cold bone, lines that Kaidan alone had ever seen, touched, tasted.  The faintest hint of warmth traces back down his flank, coursing over bulging scars and mended bones, new lines, new shapes – and that voice catches, a broken breath that struggles to form words. 

His hands shift against the edges of the sink, fingers twitching, carving their own path through the fog, chasing the man lost on the other side of the mirror.

_You betrayed me, Shepard._

“Wait, Kaidan—”

His own voice joins the fight, scrambling to chase after that ghost.

He tilts his head back, watching through half-lidded eyes as the condensation beads at the top of the mirror, threatening to fall, threatening to clear the haze, the last memory of flesh and tongue and strong hands.  His eyes fall closed, and, for a moment, he feels it.  

Steam and sweat and saliva.  A single droplet trailing down the side of his neck and settling at the juncture of his shoulder, soon drawn up by a skilled tongue.  Two strong arms wrapping around his waist, holding him close, bare chest to bare back – no space left between them, the two old soldiers rinsing off the dregs of battle under the warmth of the shower spray – and the steady thrum of that heartbeat, synced so perfectly with his own, as he turns his head to meet those smiling lips.

But it begins to fade just as quickly. 

The anger in that voice refuses to mesh with the love in that memory.

_Shepard._

His eyes snap open, a shudder creeping up his spine as he collapses halfway upon the sink, forcing the air from his lungs.  His forearms slide over the cold steel edges as his hands scramble for purchase, and he swallows hard, swallows the desperation in the air, the frantic need coiling in his gut until his muscles are twitching and his lip is quivering uncontrollably.

_I loved you—_

Trembling fingertips reach out into the haze, reach for him—

His hand streaks across the mirror.  The voice dissipates into the steam.  And the reflection left behind in the silence is that of a broken man.

When the fog clears, so does the memory.

And he is alone again.


End file.
